


Black Order: Uprising

by Euregatto



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Canon Rewrite, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, F/M, In which I rewrite the disaster that was Thanos 2019, M/M, Other, Rating subject to change, Slow Burn, and all of the Black Order origin story for that matter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:54:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23776423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Euregatto/pseuds/Euregatto
Summary: Ideally, the only outcome to war is death.aka, the origin of Thanos'Black Order.
Relationships: Corvus Glaive/Proxima Midnight, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 32





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanos (2019) really brought out the worst in me, huh? I'm straight up rewriting it and everything associated with it, though I will be honest, there's certain existing concepts I'm going to attempt to work with (including the Magus), otherwise I would launch it all out the window and not look back.
> 
> Butcher Squadron got to stay, though I'm *heavily* reworking their traits and motivations. I wanted to see more of them but less of what they were, if that makes sense.
> 
> For my Corvus/Proxima squad, it's gonna be a slow burn, but I'll give you lots of it.
> 
>  **Prior warnings before embarking** : the story's rating might increase to E. The instances of violence, gore, and sexual content will fit the M rating for the most part. We'll see how long I can resist writing a chapter of explicit smut.
> 
> Let me know what you think in the comments, let me know you love me with a kudo, and enjoy the story <3
> 
> **Storyline picks up after Thanos (2019) #1**

**Zero Sanctuary**

“Wake up _—_ ”

Proxima Midnight opened her eyes. The fluorescence of the floor lights blurred the edges of her vision, filling her sight with the aura of something limpid and soft, reminding her of the deceptively slick ice she’d slipped on in the last snowstorm she experienced back home. The memory came shackled to a thought, one she couldn’t stop no matter how often she stared at her disheveled reflection in the cracked bathroom mirror and said, “They can’t find you here,” only to be rendered mentally inert by the corollary of suppressed trauma, authenticating her reflex of winding her emotions onto a wire and pulling them taut, ready to snap under the weight of her own miscalculations; she’d rather everyone assumed the absolution of her anger was disposition and nothing more. This way, when she did lose control, when the string finally, inevitably _snapped_ and dropped all semblance of her remaining stability somewhere unrecoverable, at the very least she had no one else to blame but herself. 

The memory resurfaced. It was broken bone and blood tenderized between ice and sulfur, and all at once the tendrils of her panic scattered, pursued by Ballista Grim’s arm swinging down from the rafter of the top bunk and smacking Proxima harmlessly in the face. 

“Midna, I said wake the hell up.”

“Lista!”

“Sorry,” Ballista said, sounding half-awake herself. “You were doing the thing again.”

“What _thing—”_

“Making that face, the scary one, and muttering in your sleep. I’m afraid you’re going to knife me on reflex one of these days.”

Proxima glared up to see Ballista gazing down at her over the railing. “I’m considering knifing you on purpose,” she said, watching slanted amber orbs blink back at her without concern. “Did we oversleep?”

“Probably.”

Something new she hadn’t noticed until just now: sunlight streamed in through the viewing window above the crates where they kept their battlesuits; long lines of white lanced the air. They were close to their destination. 

Proxima put her hand over her forehead to suppress the headache induced by the presupposed assumption that the mission would be imminently dreadful. She didn’t doubt their captain per se, but Butcher Squadron had been jimmied together out of a handful of desperate scavvers seeking anything else from the universe than what they had been supplied already and some spit to ease the friction of close-quarter living—without a proper leader, their direction was constantly drastically _unclear_. It reflected in their indecisive mannerisms, debating just how much to loot or how many civilians to kill or if it would have been a lesser waste of time to run competitive napping regiments instead of the disaster their last mission devolved into, and never reaching a conclusion. She considered Ballista to be the only person on her wavelength anymore.

“If you’re not moving for the next two hours, then I call the shower,” Ballista said, skirting down the steps and scooping up a towel from the bin by the connector.

“Years,” Proxima corrected. 

“Huh?”

“I do not plan on moving for two _years_.” She folded her arm over her eyes in feeble defense against the sunlight, and felt stomped down by a horrendous lack of proper sleep. At this point the nightmares seemed to be coded into her mind, inuring her against the potential terrors in the waking world.

Ballista scoffed. “Yeah, sure. I’ll come get you when our shit is magically together.”

“Sounds good.”

Silence settled thick and heavy across the room, drifting over everything like the first snowfall of a long and arduous winter. Proxima heard the acute shuffle of Ballista’s feet on the titanium floors, cold as frost too, and then the swishing of the connector flying open and shutting again. The quiet rose up and rose up, filling the crevices of Proxima’s quarters with the horrid ponderings of how much easier it would be to simply lie here forever and die like this, disinterested in the exertion of existing on the mere whim of happenstance, all because two people created another stream of consciousness because they _could_.

In her mind’s eye, she was stumbling over ice, her clothes wetted down by blood. Proxima thought of the ones who made her, raised her up, and sent her away to die. She retrieved the combat knife from under her pillow and considered if ramming the silvery blade into her own throat vindicated her survival or rendered it all _worthless_.

* * *

Gamora rushed past Butcher Squadron, pushing between the narrow pocket of space between Ballista’s and Proxima’s hips and racing them to the door at the end of the long corridor. She was getting faster in her short few weeks under Thanos’ care, once too clumsy to be considered anything better than bait now an impressive blur of green and gray. She barrelled into the room beyond the sliding doors and disappeared into the dark.

“Someone is in quite the rush,” Infesti said. 

Proxima was focused ahead, ignoring the commotion stirred amongst her group by the presence of a child aboard the ship. Gamora inconvenienced every crew member on _Zero Sanctuary_ for various respective reasons with the nonviable manner of her arrival: _why_ , exactly, had Thanos taken her in? And why did the decision feel like a ripple effect, a pond disturbed by the impact of a rock against its surface but in reverse?

The annoyance in Proxima’s features became progressively more prominent. She attempted to retain her composure around everyone who wasn’t Ballista Grim, but who, unlike Proxima herself, was justifiably opposed to the concept of working for a Titan who’d imposed such a grandiose manner of self-importance upon himself with no foundation to build from other than birthright, that he’d found no irony whatsoever in adopting a child he’d sporadically been too soft to kill only to then flay Ferox skin from limb. Today she felt differently about everything.

Maw, to her left, gave her a sideways look. He sensed she was leering at the prospect of whatever was about to be hurled into their lap, be it a mission or a chore, and didn’t make the mistake of speaking upon it. Instead, he brushed against her mental barriers, seeking the depth of what she wasn’t saying, but found them barricaded shut.

Butcher Squadron filed through the door and spread out across the command center. Thanos stood motionlessly on the platform above the pilot’s perch where two Pilots of Fate guided the massive hulk that was home through this vast and empty galaxy; he had his face towards the viewing window to the universe. Proxima looked at the nearest navigator’s display panel and caught a brief glimpse of notes from the nearby planet’s compiled preliminary data.

“Butcher Squadron reporting,” Infesti said when no one else did.

Thanos gestured to the purple marble on the other side of the window. “This planet is an uninhabitable gas giant called Tartarus. That there”—he gestured further out, to a moon that took on the ethereal quality of marble—“is Erebus, epicenter of what is known as the Black Quadrant.”

“Ah,” Maw said, “a new world for us to prostrate by the end of the week?”

Ballista blanched. “Ew, Maw. Leave their prostates alone.”

“That doesn’t—”

“Silence,” Thanos said, not unkindly. “No, it isn’t ours for the taking. I’m going to visit a friend of mine, and Butcher Squadron is to escort me.”

Maw pressed his fingertips together in thought. “Forgive my reservations, but if this is a _friend_ , then what possible need do you have for protection?”

“No protection. I am attempting to recruit him. A display of friendship and a few formed alliances will do me some good, don’t you agree?”

R’Hos said, “So we have to be _civil?”_

“Precisely.”

The Blood Brothers looked at each like they’d been eviscerated from the hipbone up, leaving them in total, seizing pain. 

Ballista glimpsed at Proxima, earning her attention, and then nodded in the other direction, at something behind her. When Proxima followed her teammate’s gaze, she noted Gamora braced against the window, absorbing the sight of this new world with doe-eyed wonder. The girl had been thrown into the jarring, abrasive lifestyle of killers and outcasts, all violently clamoring for a place and purpose in a universe she’d never known existed until Thanos massacred her people. Her innocence upset the delicate power balance of _Zero Sanctuary_. Or, it simply irritated anyone with an ounce of regard for their profession.

Proxima returned her attention to Ballista, who raised her shoulders passively. Nothing could be done about it at the moment. Gamora was simply going to be a nuisance to the ship’s crew until her untimely demise. 

“What does this friend offer?” Ballista asked. She wasn’t one for questioning Thanos, in fact, none of them were—but given the latest trilogy of decisions on his part, Proxima hadn’t allowed the shift in dynamics to go unnoticed.

“Erebus is in the focal point of the Black Quadrant’s alliance amongst its many domains. To befriend the empire would be to join this alliance, yielding a plethora of useful resources.”

“Zero Sanctuary is coming upon the moon, Captain,” one of the Fates announced.

Thanos looked over her shoulder. On her screen, the diagram displayed the trajectory of the ship following the circumference of Erebus’ exosphere.

“Then we are to depart at once.” He turned back to Butcher Squadron. “Prepare to move out in an hour.”

“Sir,” they replied in synch. Then they got up, and filed back out the way they’d entered. 

None of them spoke to each other during the long trek down the corridor; however, at the crossroads, Gh’ree deemed their distance from the command center ample enough, and said, “I fail to understand—does Thanos desire pirates or wetnurses?”

Maw furrowed his brow. “I’m surprised your species has wetnurses.”

“I’m not,” Ballista said coyly. “The Brothers have bigger tits than I do.”

“Your vulgarity never fails to charm me, Ballista Grim.”

Infesti rubbed their claws together nervously and leaned towards Proxima. “My species does not have these _wetnurses_. What is it?”

“Read a book,” Proxima hissed back. She could tell by the way Infesti recoiled that she’d been too dramatic in her annoyance, betraying the facade she’d spent all morning building around her like a wall. The group collectively kept walking but Maw glanced over his shoulder, seeming concerned. Proxima wished he had enough decency to stop looking at her like she was something to be coddled, as if she were little better than a child who scraped their knee playing on the rocks.

“My brother’s point,” Rh’os said.

“Is that we are pirates,” Gh’ree continued. “What happened to the massacres? Looting riches and credits from the corpses? _Not_ sitting around all day on our asses keeping some brat in line?”

Ballista shrugged. “I personally don’t care if Thanos wants to be a father or a dictator. I just hate being _bored_.”

“Let us see this mission through,” Maw voiced. “We can formulate our moves _after_ this new piece is added to the playing board.”

Proxima looked at him from the corner of her eye. There was the talk of mutiny again. Of seizing power where it wasn’t earned or some generalized tyranny therein. 

Maw was undoubtedly working and reworking every detail of the plan through his mind, combing the finer layers with careful fingers to discover all the possibilities left hidden before revisiting devised angles. Proxima didn’t think she could calculate such ventures but the political structure of things never mattered much to her kind—she had no loyalty to Thanos beyond his own capabilities. If he proved inefficient, she would simply leave him to perish, as was the way of her upbringing. Actively plotting a mutiny was beyond her emotional capacity.

Over the intercom, their captain’s voice rang out: _“Proxima Midnight, you are required on the Captain’s Bridge.”_

Proxima hesitated at the threshold of the next door. Butcher Squadron froze in place and turned their attention to the ceiling, focusing on the imperative bellow in Thanos’ voice, before looking pensively at their teammate in question.

“ _Just_ Proxima Midnight,” Maw echoed, folding his hands together. “How curious.”

Curious, indeed. She said, “I will catch up with you shortly.”

She knew they were watching her as she left. It was easier not to look back.

* * *

Proxima rode the lift to the lower levels, arms folded, wondering what mistake she’d made the mistake of making to earn the direction of Thanos’ ire but otherwise entirely unfazed by the eerie placidity of her employer’s tone on the intercom. It was the kind of voice someone used when they had something to ask but knew your answer would be a lie. Proxima had nothing to offer Thanos but a sure shot in exchange for a paycheck.

The lift stopped descending. A moment later, the doors slid open. She spotted him standing on the other end of the long bypass bridge that took her over Landing Bay A. Below, the hired engineers and Pilots of Fate circumnavigated the station, meticulous in their work as they loaded a ship for departure to Erebus. Proxima returned her focus ahead and tried to decide what Thanos was thinking. He was looking at her a certain way. He always did. The meaning was lost to her, but she realized it was anything not malicious and felt her shoulders lower.

“Lady Midnight,” he said. “You seem tense. Are you frightened of me?”

She tilted her head up at him. “You think yourself terrifying? You’ve managed only to shock me with your barbaric ways, pent up beneath the facade of an understanding man.”

Thanos grinned. “How tellingly breviloquent, you are.”

Proxima narrowed her gaze. He made a polite gesture and she followed him into his office. Gamora sat at the room’s center table, fumbling with disassembled parts and tools to a device Proxima couldn’t recognize in its current state. The child wasn’t yet accustomed to the knowledge required, not by choice and regardless of preference, to survive in the vastness of the void. For once, she maintained her attention, and didn’t have something quippy to test the durability of Proxima’s currently quite fragile mental state.

“First,” Thanos said, fitting himself into the chair behind his desk, “come closer. I am going to tell you that I am under the impression you are Kree. Typically, a crew member’s species does not matter, especially not for any manner of what I wish to accomplish, but I have found it necessary to inquire.”

She was diligent with her honesty, and told him, “The term is _Kree-Tah_ , or, _sub_ Kree. We are foot soldiers, biologically altered centuries ago and taught only enough to survive, or to die in war. We do not identify with our genetic cousins as we are almost entirely our own species.”

“Then you must be familiar with the concept of collusion.”

Proxima struck the desk with her fist. The impact rattled the pieces of tech and datachips left scattered across the scuffed, well-worn surface. Perhaps it had endured more punches than just hers, especially over its long, untold years. 

Thanos raised his eyes up to hers, displaying some semblance of a variable emotion for the first time since she entered the office.

“Do not waste my time,” she hissed. “What is it you want?”

“I wish to make you an offer.”

“And here I feared you would dismember me as you did Ferox.”

“Of course not. Ferox was a fool, and put Butcher Squadron in consistent danger for meager riches. Or have you learned to forgive the careless calculations of squadmates?”

Proxima’s armored left arm emitted a metallic _clink_ at the wrist when she removed it from the desktop. The parts could get worn down if she didn’t clean the blood from its crevices. She needed to find whatever gunk remained wedged in the hand’s construct and rub it free before the noise became a potential hazard where stealth was required.

She said, “I am not paid to question you. I am paid to do as I am told.”

“That is good to hear. If only _all_ my hires thought the same as you.” Thanos rose slowly from his chair, an imposing mass of muscle and grandeur like a moon gradually eclipsing the sun, and went to the window where Erebus awaited them. “My point, Lady Midnight, is that I am not _deaf_. There are whispers of discourse brewing amongst the crew.”

“I cannot confirm or deny such rumors,” she replied. “All I have heard is mild discontent, nothing more.”

Thanos looked at the visage of her reflection in the window pane. He seemed to consider her, digesting her words, before saying, “From now on, you are _Lieutenant_ Proxima Midnight, leader of Butcher Squadron.”

He saw her straighten. Her expression looked uncertain, managing to uncover the skeptical pattern of thoughts her mind conjured to justify what he’d said and undoing the hardened aura about her. “I am honored, Captain.”

“That is very good to hear. I think quite highly of you, My Lady.” His words felt too genuine, even to his own ears. “Should there be any issues, including whispers of _mutiny_ , I expect you won’t hesitate to bring it to my attention—or quash it with your own hands, as you see fit.”

Proxima’s face blanked when he turned back. She wasn’t going to allow him the grace of knowing her considerations on the matter. 

Gamora hadn’t indicated she was observing the meeting until she resumed reassembling the tech that was beginning to identify as a carbon actuator. Her sudden fidgeting distracted Thanos momentarily, as if he’d forgotten about her presence altogether.

“Spread the good news,” he said. “You and I will be working closely from this day forward.”

“Yes, Captain. You have my gratitude.”

“You may leave.”

Proxima maintained her rigid posture as she went for the door, keeping her head high and expression ambiguous. 

“Oh, and, Lieutenant Midnight...”

She glanced at Thanos over her shoulder. He was at the table now, not looking at her at all and instead focused on teaching Gamora the tech in her hands.

He said, “Should I learn that you have any involvement in these collusions against me, I will ensure my Lady Death reunites you and your entire squadron with Ferox the Fool.”

“I understand.”

He said nothing else. Proxima took that as her cue to leave and made it into the lift before collapsing to her knees, holding her chest where it felt like her heart might rip its way out. She closed her eyes against the vertigo of being here again, trapped on the ice with nowhere to go to get away, and perhaps at some point she had come to believe that survival is all there was anymore, all there would ever be, for someone like her. Survival, no matter what.

By the time she made it to the upper deck, her legs were still shaking.

* * *

Butcher Squadron was gathered in the center of the locker room, assembling armor and utility equipment and weapons in preparation for departure. Though they didn’t anticipate a fight of any magnitude, the first lesson anyone learned out on their own was to be preplanned for the worst. Several other crew members scattered throughout the remainder of the room, their discussions a quiet lull amongst themselves, giving an ambiance of liveliness to the atmosphere.

The Ebony Maw kept his gear light. It was easier to move with less burden and hide when you weren’t emitting obnoxious levels of clunking with every step. Besides, he was progressively refining his skills, finding that pieces of terrain or scattered weapon fragments served him as well as any pistol. 

Ever adversely, Ballista Grim clapped him on the shoulder and said, “Tell me I can bring Big Bess.”

“We are attempting to display kinship with a potential ally,” Maw replied thinly. “Big Bess is the kind of weapon that would turn our negotiations sour on sight.”

Ballista frowned down at him.

He said, “I cannot tell you what to do, I can only advise against it.”

Infesti leaned over from where they sat on the center bench. “We must agree with Maw, it is ill advised to display your weapon so crudely in front of strangers.”

“Is that a dick joke?”

Infesti tilted their head at Ballista. “What?”

“Never mind,” Ballista said. “That’s one for Big Bess and two against. Brothers, take a vote!”

“Bring Big Bess!” Rh’os exclaimed, knocking fists with his twin.

Gh’ree said, “Bring their deaths, Lady Grim!”

“Three votes for, two against!”

The door to the room swished open. Butcher Squadron glanced at the figure that filled the frame, and though normally her presence wouldn’t alter the aura surrounding their team, Proxima Midnight entered and didn’t address that everyone in the locker room, including the miscellaneous crew members, had fallen entirely silent. She went by each of them without a word and set up by her assigned weapon’s locker to assemble her pistol. 

Maw exchanged an uneasy look with Ballista.

“What happened?” Rh’os dared to ask.

“I was promoted,” Proxima said simply, with the same listless behavior as brushing dust from her shoulder pad.

“Promoted? That’s great, Midnight!” Infesti said.

Proxima polished the edge of her combat knife and slid it into the pouch on her belt. “ _Lieutenant,_ and leader of Butcher Squadron. You are to report directly to me, it seems, though aside from this it won’t change much.”

“Thanos chose wisely,” Maw tried, setting a hand on her shoulder. 

She shrugged him off. “He is a fool. I have never led a group into anything but their demise.”

Ballista crossed her arms over her chest and said, “Then this wasn’t a tactical decision. I suspect it wasn’t good will, either.”

“He trusts you!” Gh’ree exclaimed.

“We can use this,” his brother added, the gears visibly grinding with effort in his head. “You could—”

“No,” Proxima interjected. “I am not doing _anything_.”

Maw considered her tone. There was no way she could have known but he thought of when they first met in the Xanthrid City, when it went up so easily into flames, and the way the Kree-Tah soldiers looked at her while they died. _Nothing like that should be my fault_ , she’d told him. _Nothing like that will be my fault again._

He said, “Proxima, please consider—”

Maw hit the locker wall. He felt the impact of his back against the unyielding metal, and heard the hollow ricochet of his body colliding with a force that could have killed him, if she’d really wanted to. Proxima’s hand clamped around his throat. Displaying that sudden lethality. How easy, how inconsequential, it would be to unravel beneath her anger and snap his fucking _neck_.

Butcher Squadron made no move to help. Their reactions varied, ranging from mild surprise to reserved uncertainty. Silence settled once more over the room like a snow drift. Still, cold.

Proxima’s eyes narrowed. “Keep me out of your delusions of mutiny. This is your _only_ warning.”

Maw trembled beneath her grasp. She tightened her fingers on his airways, asserting upon him all at once the strength that had never left her from the moment they met on the doomed warfront, and he gritted out, “Mercy! _Mercy_.”

Proxima finally released him, still imposing her larger self over his lithe frame. 

Ballista finally inserted herself between them, pushing Midnight back with her forearm, but not for lack of antipathy for the Maw. “Flarking Hell, Midna. What the _fuck_ has gotten into you?”

There was no safe answer to that question. Instead, Proxima slammed her locker shut and stormed out. 

Maw rubbed at the light bruises forming on his throat, swollen purple against pallid skin.

“Are you okay?” Infesti asked, the only one of their team prone to reciprocating the pain of their companions as if there was no other method of handling a situation but by shouldering the burden. They made a motion to check the severity of his injury, which Maw turned down less than politely by pushing their hand away.

“Yes,” he replied thinly. “I should not have provoked her.”

“Think that was a front?” Rh’os asked.

“It does not matter. We have a mission to focus on.”

The group resumed preparations as if nothing had changed. Maw knew better than anyone it wasn’t for show. Proxima was incapable of acting, or of lying to any of them; her intentions were always palpable. She was someone who’d spent her life learning to swim close to shore, never testing the powers of a bigger, hungrier ocean. Most people didn’t come back from challenging the world or the natural order of things.

Unlike them, she was someone who knew her place.


	2. Starfall

The Ebony Maw stood in the hull of the drop ship as the rest of Butcher Squadron moved the last of the cargo into the lower decks. They pushed past him with their copious amounts of weapons and crates, sharing stories, swears, and information about the best _comfort_ locations for the lonely nights (which Maw reflexively backlogged for later reference when the Blood Brothers inevitably caught a skin parasite he’d have to treat with surgical scalpels and a strict regimen of peroxide). He’d done his part in securing the ammunition in the combat rig. Now he awaited departure. 

Ballista and Infesti carried a long crate holding the spare solar cell passed him and down the ramp into the rig, leaving him suddenly quite alone in the belly of the ship. The rattle of the engine whirring to life caused the floor to tremble beneath his feet. Above the distant rumble he noted the presence of a figure suddenly looming behind him and turned to find Proxima Midnight standing just out of arm’s reach, her body shadowed by the floodlights and starlit eyes glowing softly. It gave her the visage of a horrible mass contemplating the many afflictions of pain, and deciding which would hurt him worse.

He said, “What are you thinking, Lady Midnight?”

Her eyes seemed to soften. She shrugged one shoulder and moved around him, maintaining the strange distance between them that he could never hope to explain to anyone else, let alone himself.

“Gaze into my mind,” she told him, her tone betraying nothing of her thoughts, “if you are so curious.”

“Are you giving me permission?”

“You’ve never needed it before.”

Maw’s mouth formed a downward moue before he could consider an alternate expression to mask his uncertainty. It was difficult to lie to her, or to pretend to be someone he’s not, especially when her voice was the same despondent flux she carried with her years ago—after they’d fled the burning city on a stolen ship—and he reflected upon the memory of her shoulders trembling under his palms, an involuntary reaction to fear which sundered her apart with such totality he wondered, at the time, if she’d never recover from it. 

“I apologized for that,” he said.

“You did.”

“I took a vow—”

She closed the distance between them and placed her fingertips under his upturned collar to assess the damage she’d done in the locker room. He winced, though not from pain. Proxima said softly, “You did,” and Maw spared a glance to find she was frowning at the bruises already swollen black and ugly against his pallid skin. He remained entirely inert as she examined her handiwork. “I came to take a vow of my own, if I may.”

“I will hear you out.”

“I did not mean to let my anger get the best of me. It will not happen again.” She met his gaze, and he retained his dignity by giving her a small nod. “However, I ask that you, as my friend, do not give me a reason to act otherwise.”

She was talking about the mutiny. About the immensity of the universe and their fractional piece of it, carved out by circumstance and now subjected to ruin by the whispers he’d spread when he thought no one was paying him any mind. That was how he’d navigated the life he lived before this one: from the shadows in the circuits of the courts. Tipping the pieces of a chess board. But here, now, and somehow, there was nothing he could do that escaped her.

Maw said, “I suspect you are not the type to go back on your word, no matter what—”

“The Hell did I walk in on?” Ballista blurted, the sharpness of her voice startling both of them.

Proxima’s fingers inadvertently pressed on Maw’s neck and he recoiled from the sudden agony of how tender the bruising was, hissing a string of swears in his native language. “ _Nothing_ ,” they grit out together. 

Proxima tilted her head quizzically at Ballista, who jabbed her thumb over her shoulder and said, “The Pilots just finished boarding. We’re heading out soon. Might want to get to the bridge before the Captain starts to think you’re in on Maw’s mutiny.”

“I suspect you wish to see me decapitated,” he replied coyly.

 _“ Duh_. If I stay on Thanos’ good side, think I’ll get to do it myself?”

Maw’s mouth dropped into a deep frown again, but for a wholly different reason than before. Proxima was already passing Ballista and trotting up the ramp to the upper deck, paying neither of her teammates another moment of her time. She had nothing left to say to them.

* * *

Proxima entered the cockpit of the dropship with two of Butcher Squadron— _her_ Butcher Squadron, she thought with an uneasy reservation, or perhaps mere acceptance for the sake of avoiding addressing the underlying problem—in tow. The trio went to their assigned stations, a setup they’d established in the early days of their formation to capitalize on each individual’s skills. Ballista sat to Maw’s right at the ship’s offense station, the Blood Brothers and Infesti occupied the hull to directly fix damages at a moment’s notice, and Proxima went to her usual spot, a communications terminal on the other side of the pilots’ perch.

Thanos sat poised in the captain’s chair, which was characteristically elevated above the rest of the bridge, with Gamora standing rigidly at his side. Proxima didn’t look at him when she settled in her seat, but she became acutely aware of his eyes fixated on her back. 

“Ship is cleared for take off,” Minnow, one of the Pilots of Fate, announced, her yellow face lit by the screen in front of her.

“Retracting landing gear,” Jarrett, their eldest and most experienced member, said in turn.

Proxima felt the ship’s engines whir to life, its anti-gravity propulsion system sending the massive thing careening upwards. 

“We’re steady,” Maw said. On his screen, the stabilizers flickered green.

Outside, another member of the Pilots of Fate and Jarrett’s most recent hire, an Elphid named Cori, used his hands to direct their drift safely from the landing bay and through the veil of the gravity field. When their ship departed into the open vacuum of space, Proxima switched on the artificial cocoon to keep them from floating out of their seats.

“Crossing the exosphere in thirty,” Minnow said.

“Gut us below the atmosphere and wait,” Thanos replied, leaning back into his chair.

The group flew in silence until they breached the atmosphere of Erebus and locked into a hover above the uppermost layer of thick, billowing clouds rendered visible by the dying light of dusk. Over the hum of technology in the bridge, Proxima made out the whirl of wind battering uselessly against the sides of their ship. She reviewed the compiled information on the screen before her and committed it to memory: the force of gravity on the surface, the long seasons of dry weather, the two vastly different races from either polar side of the planet, the creatures and cultures and histories. The Kree-Tah valued information to guide their methods in overtaking their enemies in battle. It was a habit Proxima had never needed to break. 

Jarrett asked, “Shall we descend, Captain?”

“Not yet.”

Proxima felt the curious mental brush of the Maw’s power prodding their link. She glimpsed over her shoulder at Thanos and noted he hadn’t moved since their departure; he leaned his chin on his fist as if bored by the very mission he was compelled to initiate, and his expression remained absent of any indication that a single thought had entered his mind in the last thirty standard minutes. 

“What are we waiting on?” Ballista asked finally.

Then, a notification of an incoming transmission crossed Proxima’s screen. Thanos righted himself just as she said, “Captain, an outside line is requesting access.”

“Send him through.”

_So he was waiting on a call._

She projected the message to the display screen at the front of the ship and a figure appeared across the curved window; a hunched thing clad in a black cloak that shadowed its features. Proxima noted the sharp jut of gold blades from either side of its head, and the long, equally golden glaive clutched in its terrifying claws. The creature hissed low into the audio feed. 

_“Greetings, friend Thanos,”_ it said. _“My scouts have sensed your arrival above the Savvat Highlands. Go north to reach the capital, but remain at your altitude for the next ten clicks, otherwise you will descend into an active warzone.”_

“Which means you will not be there to greet me. How rude of you, Corvus Glaive.”

The creature hissed again. _“You have my apologies. Once I have dealt with this resistance—”_

“Allow my intervention,” Thanos said, and the beast tilted its head. “If _you_ are involved in this battle, then I am to assume you have much to gain from it—or, much to _lose_. Regardless, I am here to repay that favor, and this is how I shall do it. Tell me what your situation entails.”

The creature, Corvus, went quiet. He shifted, and the light of the sun from the angle he was at caught his eyes, revealing deep, crimson embers burning in the dark of his hood. An icy chill struck a chord in Proxima’s spine.

 _“The queen and her heir were traversing what was proclaimed to be neutral territory,”_ Corvus explained. _“Their convoy was ambushed by the Tzarin Rebels. Though the battle is not yet lost and the convoy maintains its numbers, I must ensure the queen and her child escape.”_

“Then it cannot be helped,” Thanos said thoughtfully. “I will see you on the front lines.”

Corvus inclined his head and a moment later the transmission cut out. The window now revealed the dusk over the horizon, and the spherical, deiform presence of Tartarus rising ominously over the clouds. 

“You said there was no need for protection,” Proxima remarked, returning her attention to their leader. “Yet, we are above a warzone.”

“As if I would require protection from civil hostilities. Do I hear hesitation in your tone, Lieutenant?”

“No, Captain. You never will.”

Thanos pondered her response. He continued, “I believe this is an excellent opportunity to prove our camaraderie. Midnight, you are the forefront of this endeavor. How would you like to proceed?”

“I am an army unto myself. Send me into battle and I will ensure our enemies regret leaving their mother’s womb.”

Thanos reclined in his chair again. To his right, Gamora was looking up at him in reservation, containing her fascination with the implications of Proxima’s power. He pressed his lips together in thought, and considered Midnight’s proposal: she was a proven survivor of many battles thus far, though they were mere skirmishes in comparison to the scale of what he suspected she'd been through. However, if she was truly seeking death on the battlefield, he supposed he could allow it regardless of her true prowess. His Lady Death would appreciate the sacrifice all the same.

“Very well,” he said.

“Our ship is vulnerable to being shot on sight,” she told him while rising from her station. She went to the door. “Remain above the battle. Butcher Squadron will handle this pathetic resistance.”

When the door slid shut behind her, Ballista leaned towards Maw and said, “Told you I should’ve brought Big Bess.”

* * *

The hatch of the dropship yawned open. Proxima approached the edge of it slowly, the adrenaline of real combat flourishing within her for the first time in years since she last propelled herself into the bloody, burning fray against a true threat. She anticipated the advanced artillery and honed skills of the Tzarin from her earlier reading. They brought with them the promise of _combat_.

Far below her was a raging brawl between them and the convoy that guarded the Queen as spurred by a civil unrest far more intense than Thanos let on, and for reasons she couldn’t care any less to know and wasn’t any worse off for ignoring. Wind whipped into the hull and threatened to knock her from her feet.

 _“Butcher Squadron,”_ Minnow announced into the channel, _“prepare to drop. On your mark, Lieutenant Midnight.”_

“Copy.”

Thanos’ voice rang out over the line. _“Your enemies are the ones who wear the red paint of rebellion upon their faces and chests. Leave none alive.”_

“With pleasure, Captain.”

Proxima reached the edge of the platform. Open sky sprawled out beneath her as the clouds cleared momentarily, forming a funnel under her feet, awaiting her fall. She recalled the first jump she’d ever attempted: as a child with the others in her group, from a rock that jutted perfectly from the earth as if summoned through an esoteric ritual, and how back then the dirt felt harder than it ever would anywhere else in the universe.

“Oh,” Ballista uttered. “That’s a _long_ way down.”

Proxima measured the distance between their ship and the ground. Perhaps she would land in the center of the fight, perhaps upon the soldiers themselves; her tongue darted out to caress the edge of her lip, imagining the taste of blood behind her teeth and the thrill of bone crumbling beneath the strength of her blows. Politics bored her. Negotiation was useless. But war...oh, how _war_ filled her veins with the prelude to _victory_.

Butcher Squadron assembled behind her. They’d been outfitted with jet packs to accommodate the fact they weren’t nearly as durable as she was, though she suspected the Blood Brothers were more resilient than they’d implied in their interview. _The rule of battle is this_ , her mentor once said to her during the same squirmish she’d nearly lost her arm: _factor nothing out. What you choose to do will be no one’s fault but your own in the end._

Proxima flexed her armored hand.

“Butcher Squadron, descend!”

And she leapt from the back of the ship. 

* * *

In all her years on the stormfront of battle, every jump was the same: it was a moment where Proxima’s safe purchase fell away from under her feet and left her flightless, plummeting wildly towards the ground at terminal velocity. The wind was a horrible roar over her ears. The thermal gel in her suit hardened under the surface of its black material, reflecting back her body heat to combat the terrible coldness of the clouds enveloping her falling body. She’d learned as a child to overcome the fear first. She’d learned as a soldier to channel the adrenaline so she didn’t over-extend her limbs and throw herself into a spiral. 

At the apex of her height above the world where the sky blurred into one continuous sphere of blue on blue, she instinctively focused her mind and pulled her arms to her sides, pointing her form like an arrow into a streamline at the ground. Their squad mentors called it _Starfall_ : to become like a meteorite fragment or recaptured debris, either weak enough to burn up or strong enough to leave an impact. 

She’d learned in the burning city that the collision could never hope to harm her again.

* * *

Corvus Glaive sped through the underbrush upon the back of his mount. The ungulate was a reflection of his kind—lithe and sturdy, it’s slender body evolved to stride across the mesa and reduce the drag of wind. He folded himself close to its back. The earthly scent of its scales permeated the tight vicinity between them and he felt connected to its heartbeat, moving in tempo with each stretch and retraction of its long legs and boney hooves beating the dirt. Behind him his convoy rode in tandem, not enough of a force on their own to ever possibly fight back the rebellion but with Corvus at the helm they had become, at some leeway between his ascension and the start of the war, the equivalent of messengers of death.

“Master Corvus!” exclaimed his guard, who gestured to the indigo backdrop spanning high above them. “Look to the east!”

Corvus’ gaze dared to abandon the road ahead in favor of the anomaly burning bright against the darkening sky. There, silhouetted by Tartarus, plummeting towards the battlefield: 

A falling star.


End file.
